She Sits Alone

They clung to one another as one clings to a bit of debris in a storm-tossed sunken ship

That went down into the dark, cold abyss

they clung to one another as a child clings to a stuffed toy or a security blanket

Each drawing from the other what they didn’t get from their alcoholic or absent parent…

Two abandoned, wounded children, united in unholy matrimony…

A union of tension, unspoken words of grief buried too deep to even acknowledge…

Skeleton closet material for sure…

Abuses of all sorts…haunting the next generation…until someone stood up and said….

NO!!!

They clung to each other through the sibling rivalry that was more hidden abuses

They clung to each other through the teenage rebellion years

 through the drug addiction and yet another generation of alcoholism

they clung to each other through teen pregnancies

 through the deaths of children and grandchildren from drug overdoes

They clung to each other through old age..til one passed, leaving the other

To sit alone…with the memories of all the abuses never talked about

She sits alone…with all the memories

She sits alone, still in denial of how bad it really was…

She sits alone, a wrinkled old woman, with her made-up god and her made-up stories.

She sits alone and wonders where she went wrong…

She sits alone, waiting for her turn to meet her maker

She sits alone and wonders what could have been…

 if only

She, herself, was the one that said

NO!!!!!

Yom Kippur

What/Who am I to You, Yahweh?
King of Kings, Lord of Lords,
The Great I am that I am
Elohim above ALL Elohim
Why do you care for me?
As dirty and sinful as I am?
As many times as I fall
flat on my shameful face
because of these stubborn
ingrained
mindsets
behaviors
tumultuous feelings
manifesting as
 pride
 arrogance
selfishness

self this, self that

self-pity
self-rejection
self-centeredness
self-focused
self-neglect

self
self
self

deliver me from the bondage of

self…

You and only You can free me,
 forgive me
 purge me
 renew me
  regenerate me
 heal me…

resetting my soul

before all the trauma
drama
chaos

hijacking my heart
my brain,
my very soul

morphing me
into this self-absorbed
wounded animal,

 nursing my wounds…
creating a barrier around my heart
self-protecting
even from You, my Deliverer

Will I, even I?

be written in Your book of Life

or Your book of the dead?

Sukkot for The Woman at the Well

Sukkot with the Woman at the Well

Powerless…

over others opinion…

 of her…

she again found herself 

ostracized

rejected

dejected

alone…

while

others 

celebrate the most joyous feast days

together

Sukkot …

the feast of Tabernacles

the time of the Messiah’s birth

the looking forward to His return

when He will rule His Kingdom…

with an iron fist…

and a balance of love…

she

alone…void of love…

while others celebrate 

joyous…dancing, feasting,

reveling…

with one another…

she…

Woman at the Well…

despised Samaritan…

  faces yet another commanded moadim

alone…

every season, 

every feast day, 

she wonders…

and wonders,

hopes

 prays

this time it will be different

this time someone will take notice

of her poverty, of her loneliness

and love her

accept her

give her a place 

at their table

at their camp

at their fire

like He commanded them to…

but…

again…

not this year…

not this time…

not this moadim

not this feast

she, alone…

will face another void of love…

and turn…

to her Savior…

her Beloved…

and seek His face…

His love…

His acceptance…

because

she

too

belongs

to the King…

MDSW2022

My Father’s Daughter

My father

A child in a grown man's body
selfish, self-absorbed, fearful, hypervigilant
arrested development rendering him immature
stuck in another time, another era
that of a child, rejected, abandoned by 
his own parents...alone, in a house of death
as he calls it...
built by his grandpa's own hands...
a place I called home...
till I fled as a teen...pregnant
fearful, self absorbed, 
filled with the same stuff...
that of arrested development...
stunted maturity...

addicted, afflicted by the same haunting
sins...of our fathers handed down...
alcoholism, shame, rage, pain...
addicted to food, to anything
to numb, to hide, to die...
a slow death 

Yes, you are your father's daughter...
I hear Father say...
but...I want you to be 
My daughter...
filled with My characteristics
Let Me give you a new heart
with a right Spirit
Let Me empty you of all the dross
and fill you with My love...

Exodus 34:6
Berean Study Bible
Then the LORD passed in front of Moses and called out: “The LORD, the LORD God, is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in loving devotion and faithfulness,

Source: https://bible.knowing-jesus.com/topics/Sins-Of-The-Fathers

JPS Tanakh 1917
The LORD is full of compassion and gracious, Slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy.

Nehemiah 9:17
They refused to listen and failed to remember the wonders You performed among them. They stiffened their necks and appointed a leader to return them to their bondage in Egypt. But You are a forgiving God, gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in loving devotion, and You did not forsake them.

The Biblical Role of Women Part VIII

GRACE in TORAH

IMG_2794

Role of Women Main Page

It’s been a while since I’ve written under this title. Actually, I had planned to leave the original series with seven posts; but further study and the popularity of this series, has led me to conclude two things:

  1. The Creator, in these latter days, is restoring the role of women to HIS original design.
  2. Women are desperately seeking the freedom to live out their God-given purpose within the perfect and holy boundaries of the Torah (Bible).

I’ve received many emails in regard to my original seven posts. Some were cries of elation and jubilation at the prospect of real freedom and balance. Others were notes of skepticism or a fear of women taking over the assemblies. And a few were a mixture of both, but with a heart set on openness — a sort of  “let’s wait and see.”

In light of this…

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What To Do With Step 6 & Step 7 In Celebrate Recovery?

Celebrate Recovery at First Baptist Dallas

The men at First Baptist Dallas Celebrate Recovery are currently working Steps 6 and 7.

Step 6: We were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

Step 7: We humbly asked Him to remove all our shortcomings.

Principle 5: Voluntarily submit to every change God wants to make in my life and humbly ask Him to remove my character defects.

I’ve worked the 12 Steps seven times now, and I must admit, after writing my inventory and sharing it with my sponsor, these two steps seemed like “blow-off steps” to me, leading up to the big showdown called “Amends.” But, after so many times through the program, I have now come to see sweet rewards in these two steps. I like to think of them as the “prayer” steps.

My root causes for entering C.R. were pornography and racism. I am blessed to be sober from…

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The Last Husband

img_20190111_113019 The faded flowers of bouquets sent as a peace offering are now merely tattered remnants of empty apologies

 

 

The bridal suite was exquisite, the adjourning bath with jacuzzi enviable. My Mary Kay bridesmaid attentively and artistically created a beautiful portrait of my then young face. The hairdresser created a beautiful hairdo, weaving together a creation worthy of a princess. That is how  I felt that day. Like a princess. Hopeful that the hard life behind me was just that, behind me. Faded like a distorted photograph of a former life.

Close friends came and went, oohing and aahing over the gorgeous fit-for-a- princess wedding dress, the expensive wedding suite, all the amenities that came with it, such as the luxurious bathroom equipt with a jacuzzi.

I was a nervous bride. I was trying hard not to be irritable, not wanting to be a  Bridezilla. I was supposed to be full of joy, wasn’t I? Wasn’t this suppose to be my day, the day of joy, celebrating finally finding the right man for me? The man I would spend the rest of my life with? So, why the deep sense of impending doom? “What is wrong with me” I kept wondering.

Looking back, I realize that the God-given gut instincts were at play… the instincts that I wanted so desperately to ignore, could not be ignored.  Those red flags that I ignored while engaged to be married to this man; all ignored. After all, everyone loved him, approved of him, encouraged me to walk through the rest of my life with him.

Not trusting myself, I trusted others. Some of those that I trusted were the annoying ones coming in and out of the bridal suite that fateful day…

Today, nine years later, we are divorced. Five years ago, it was final…Today, I struggle picking up the pieces of the shattered illusionary dream of wedded bliss, forever after, growing old together, walking on the Florida beaches in retirement, holding my Lovers hand…

this is what I would write to him today in a letter if I could…

To My Last Husband,

I still miss you…I miss us…the us I thought was the reality. I do not blame you for everything, it takes two. I have to own my part in it…I ignored my God given gut instinct. I could not hang in there while you figured out that you were an abuser and that the therapist was actually colluding with you. I could not stray while I was being destroyed physically and emotionally by the gaslighting and the verbal bullying. I tried, I kept leaving and I kept coming back, believing that this time it would be better, this time we can make it work.

 

Yes, I had a part in our mess. I kept trusting that you would get it, that you would make us safe again. But, you chose the colluding therapists, you chose to keep playing the game. It took me a while to figure out what was going on. All the accusations that I was the abuser threw me off, I started to believe you. I did not know that standing up for myself and reacting with outrage toward you was not abuse. I started to believe you and the colluding fly monkeys, that there was something wrong with me…that I was mentally deranged. delusional was the word you loved to say about me. After all, wasn’t me, as you loved to point out, that was on medication. You, being a very intelligent pharmacist, knew all about my medications. You feigned being so concerned about my welling being that you wanted to come to all my appointments and tell them how concerned you were.  I now realized what you were up to. My therapists told me you called them to let them know all my behaviors and how concerned you were about me. You were so good at manipulating that even the male therapist that worked in the local men’s battering program was almost convinced that it was me who was doing the abusing.

I could go on and on about all the things that came to light after I entered into the local Domestic Violence Shelter. I could write a book about the short time we were married. The 12 step inventory I found with the handwritten confession of all your abuse. Then the divorce papers with all the wonderful husbandly things you were still doing for me….yep, convincing. I had to laugh when I found out you were soliciting funds for the new housing program for victims of domestic violence while me, your wife, sat in a shelter for victims of domestic violence in order to save myself from complete mental breakdown from your abuse. The irony of it…

I miss my beloved Jack Russell Terrier. I must say, if I had been treated as well as you treated my dog, I would not have had to flee from your house. Yes, your house, After all, you reminded me quite a few times that it was your house. You never put my name on anything. You controlled everything.

I sit in poverty now. On disability. The trauma almost destroyed me completely. Funny, I sit here thinking back on our early days. I remember sitting in my living room, you across the room, so innocent, like the good Catholic man you portrayed yourself to be, saying “Poor poor baby, you have been through so much. You will never have to work again, you can heal from all the trauma of your past. You can write another book, go back to college, finish your degree,, take art classes, you can go to spas and have manicures and pedicures and just be pampered.

I am sure that you meant it.

However, after our extravagant honeymoon in Key West, where I was treated like a royal princess, things changed. Drastically. No longer were even interested in spending time with me. Suddenly, we were like strangers sharing a house. I felt uninvited, like an intruder. I had no idea the darkness that resided in that house your grandfather built I had no idea that your grandmother invited gypsy tea leaf readers that and had rented to a witch. I had no idea that you saw what you called gremlins. I had no idea that you also saw hooded creatures lurking at night around your bed. No. I had no clue that I had no clue. I didn’t know that I didn’t know about the darkened world of the occult. It almost convinced me to kill myself.

Thank you for the letter you sent to my parents admitting that you abused me causing me to leave you…so sad that my father still didn’t get it, nor my brother either, but, what could I expect from them, after all, they sure did their share of abusing me when I was growing up. They liked you and thought I was the abuser, they believed you above me. You sure were good with getting folks to collude with you and be your flying monkeys. Dad always said birds of a feather flock together. Maybe that is why the churches are so toxic.

I am grateful for the time I had with you. Even though at this point in my life, I will most likely not complete the college degree I at one time pursued, I have a Ph.D in narcissistic abuse syndrome, domestic abuse, and narcissism. Although at times  I truly did not want to go on living, Creator has a purpose in mind for my life. I lived to tell my story. You are only part of that story I lived to tell and an education that most will never have.

I am grateful for my time with you because I learned these following things:

Money does not buy happiness. Botox and fillers do not make a wife more attractive and cannot compete with addiction to the illusionary world of porn. Your porn problems were there before I ever came along. Your gambling addiction was there before I came along. Just because a person is sitting in 12 step meetings for years and not drink or use illegal drugs does not equate true recovery. I learned that narcissists fool most everyone, even experts. Most believers are clueless about domestic abuse, therefore will re-victimize the victim due to their chosen ignorance. I learned who my real friends are. Living the high life using credit cards can be a sign of gambling addiction.  I learned that abuse can be part of a person’s gambling addiction. I learned that you are a very broken person using the only coping mechanisms you know. I learned that we are all broken children in need of His healing power.  I learned that marriage is a serious covenant and that most of us do not understand what marriage is.  I learned not to believe people just because they verbalize a profession of faith in  Christ. I learned that I need to love myself and listen to what my God-given instincts are saying and not listen to humans that are so easily fooled by master manipulators. I learned to trust my Creator. I learned that I am very valuable and you were not worthy of me. I learned that Yeshua is my real husband and that He is my Provider, Healer, and Protector.

 

 

The Pink Room

My heart at times, becomes heavy, full of turmoil. As I strive to become His pure Bride, periodically suffering surfaces. This world is like a heavy weapon against His grace, pounding my head with shameful thoughts; dredging up my failures, my hopes and dreams that are now, at 56, seemingly impossible to achieve.

Shame still tries to raise its ugly head. As I listen to lectures on Adult Children of Alcoholic/Dysfunctional Families, it’s so clear to me how ingrained this insidiousness has permeated every nook and cranny of my life, bringing a stench of rot with it. It’s destructive force overcame all attempts of mine to outrun it, to break if off me. My endeavors to outsmart it by arming myself with knowledge of the family disease has me defeated. The vast knowledge I have accumulated on Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder gives me insight into the nightmares, depression, hyper-vigilance to name just of few symptoms of C-PTSD. All the money spent on various therapists, too many to list, defied my power, enabling It to destroy yet another generation. My dear son, my oldest, at the tender age of 23, succumbed to his own demons of destruction when death caught him in its grasp far too early.

This inherited sickness still, in some ways, permeates the very fiber of my being. Still I am attracting narcissistic men. I even see its ugly traits in myself and wonder if it’s what is keeping me from overcoming the inner “ick”. Bring raised by a selfish, overgrown abusive bully has left its scar tissue deeply embedded within my soul. Behavior patterns are deeply entrenched in my brain. I continue the hard work of renewing my mind into the mind of Christ. “Progress not perfection,” as said in the healing rooms of various 12 step meetings.

Intellect does not save one. Years of various types of therapy, a college degree in Chemical Dependency Counseling with credentials and extensive research pertaining to healing from addictions and all forms of abuse, both obvious and hidden. I have also spent countless hours viewing You Tube lectures looking for answers on these destructive conditions, and yet I still feel so frustrated and empty. My head totally gets it, and I can use my knowledge to help others heal, but my heart is still broken.

Since being a young child I have sought my fathers’ love, approval, validation, adoration and protection. As an adult I have attended an Ivy league college, become a published writer, obtained professional credentials, and become an accomplished woman . Nothing I have done has been able to gain his approval. I still yearn to hear affirming words validating my worthiness for love and adoration from him.

I have heard it said many times: one cannot give to their children what was never given to them. Hence the deficits in the loving department.The shamed shame. The rejected reject. The abused abuse. The shame is insidious and unquenchable – toxic and so hard to heal. It only heals in relationships with healthy, loving, affirming people.

Praying and crying out to God has been the way of healing and restoration for me. I have a love relationship with my Redeemer. I cling to Him, hoping someday to escape this insane evil plot against humankind.

At times I am so lonely it hurts. I feel an ache in my heart, a yearning in my soul for connection, laughter, fellowship.

I think to myself, This is why people go to bars. They are so vulnerable to being picked up by unsavory characters; falling for the age old pick up lines like , “Where have you been all my life?” and other wonderful sounding, captivating entrapment lines.

This is why people escaping abusive relationships often return to the abuser. Loneliness. Emptiness. Shame. Feeling of being such a loser.

Regarding loneliness…flashback to myself as a little girl, the lost child, retreating to the safety of my pink painted room. Sanctuary. Retreat. My own sacred space. Pink for girl. Pink for softness for a precious little girl. My mother labored over that room; carefully selecting curtains to match the soft pink walls. She was so proud of her efforts to camouflage my fathers junk stored in my sacred space.

That room was supposed to my safety zone, instead it turned into a torture chamber. No doors were hung, but merely curtains to block the view of whether I was “decent” or not as my father would always asked before entering. His hobby room was off from my sacred space. The man that scared me so asked me permission to enter into my sacred pink room in order to enter his man cave. Little did I know he had a hidden stash of porn in his man cave.

Demons of lust abode in that room, right next door. Demons of anger, rage and shame manifested there also, in my supposed sanctuary, on a regular time frame. Sunday night my parents went bowling, leaving me in the house with my abusive brothers.The precious little girl, at the mercy of the cruel brothers. Sunday nights were torment nights. As their abuse began in the living room, I tried to ignore them as much as possible by staring at the television, rocking my body back and forth in an attempt to comfort my terrified self. I tried so hard to ignore them as they surrounded my chair, taunting me, threatening me, accusing me of whatever their evil minds could conjure up.

As the vicious momentum reached an overwhelming level of terror I could no longer tolerate, I fled to pseudo safety. They pursed me with their evil surmising . My father, being the typical Adult Child of an Alcoholic/Dysfunctional Family did not complete the remodeling job he set out to do eons ago. Still I had no doors hung on my doorway, therefore there was no lock to ensure my safety. Regular beatings took place in my pink torture chamber. That is where I learned to take beatings, emotional, physical and sexual. This is where I learned to tolerate the intolerable. As my mother has said for years “You are a glutton for punishment”. “I wonder where I learned that, ma?!”

Today, as an adult, in my periodic times of feeling that loneliness, those demons of shame, resentment, bitterness and un-forgiveness still try beckoning me to acknowledge their presence, their right to continue to torment me. In prayer, I seek my Savior and Deliverer to fill those lonely places. ( I invite the Father to protect me from anymore unsavory characters to take up residence in my haven of rest in the here and now.)

I have been lonely in my marriages. It is ironic that the last two husbands were so much like my brothers in terms of verbal, not physical abuse. The generational crazies began again…as these professed Christian men set out to character assassinate me with their mouths, I fled to the sacred space of my bedroom. Attempting to detach from their demon-like shrieking, they, in turn, came at me with their verbal assaults upon my soul, and they, like my brothers, violated my boundaries, entering into my sacred space to continue their tormenting accusations, bullying and projecting their own sins onto me.

I am grateful that I was able to flee those habitations of demons by the grace of my Heavenly Father. I would rather endure this kind of loneliness than be in another loveless abusive marriage. Today, my bedroom is not pink, it is not invaded by any man, abusive or otherwise. It is indeed my quiet, sacred space where I can relax into deep slumber, knowing that I will not be harmed.

This is not what the Creator designed marriage and family for. The enemy of mankind fuels generational sins of abuse to torment the souls of humankind. Our Creator gave us boundaries and guidelines found in the Scriptures. Although my mother tried to raise us in the fear of the Lord,my father was not a believer. He and my mother both grew up in abusive homes, they were both abused in various ways, they were both abandoned by parents. They were both raised with alcoholic families. This way of child rearing has profound impact on the next generation. The scriptures talk of the sins of the fathers being visited upon the next generation. When and if we, individually and as a family return to our Creator and follow His ways, He will forgive and heal our families and our land. 2 Chronicles 7:14. Also see Exodus chapter 20. The whole of the Torah instructs His children how to love Him, and love our neighbor as we love ourselves.